sounds familiar Musing on the present. Reminiscing about the past. Posturing for the future.

three books

I feel like this week is slow.  I'm stuck in amber and it's a monumental effort just to get from bed to work to bed again in the cycle of day.  Sounds bad but I don't intend it to.  I like slow.  Gives me time to think; feels like more hours in the day; makes me more productive.

Keaton apparently had some mega-fit, a fit to end all fits if you hear Sharaun tell it, Monday afternoon just before I got home from work.  Sharaun described it as topping the Disneyland tantrum.  That scar is still pink and puckered on my brain.  I was there for the Disneyland tantrum, I can vividly recall the delirium and the madness and the emotion.  I know how bad Disneyland was, I lived it.  And like veterans of America's so-called "greatest generation" will spit on the ground and call us young folks "soft" and "pampered," having weathered that tempest of awful behavior I think I know a thing or two about fits and their relative severity.  So for this fit, which I'll call the grocery store fit, to best that... well, hell... that would certainly be something.

I mean I believe her.  She has no reason to exaggerate.  We have no contest of parenting one-upmanship whereby she'd be chalking up another mark in her column or anything.  So I can only take her on her word - this must have been a humdinger of a fit.  Part of what scares me, though, friends, is that I think we're still just getting started here.  Disneyland, while still my high-water mark, will no doubt be eclipsed in time by something else; something that much worse in it's own time.  And then again something else.  And again.  I don't mean to say that I expect our wonderful daughter's behavior to be a runaway truck or anything, a white dwarf compacting its way to nova or something... I only mean to say I'd be silly not to expect additional potholes on this road.  Things always seem seem worse in-the-moment and not-so-bad after the blessing of years; maybe I just mean to say that eventually all  passé  "old fits" will in time be replaced  by some nouveau "new fit."

Sharaun pegged the epicenter, the Mrs. O'Leary's cow, as a denied ride on the outside of the shopping cart.  Apparently this is a sometimes treat that she grants on some type of special occasion at one certain store... something about a carpeted area where she allows this sort of risky cart-ride if the whim hits.  Wherever that special place is, it's not the grocery store parking lot and Sharaun told Keaton as much in answer to her request.  Like the tiny sunburst an errant rock makes in your windshield; like the long, thin lateral lines that appear in a snowdrift; a series of tremors at the base of a volcano - Keaton's initial displeasure was but a harbinger of the coming storm.

OK so again I wasn't there and I don't know how bad it really was.  I'm trying to pretend I was though; trying to write like I was or put myself in her place or something.  I think they call it "identifying with your subject."  Or, I imagine they'd call it something like that in journalism school or creative writing.  We were both there for Disneyland, and Sharaun swears this grocery store thing was worse, so I think I can somewhat accurately place it on the scale in my head.  I just do that and try to write from there, as if I were part of it when it actually went down.  Were I truly present I could likely flesh out this story with personal anecdote or some details about the parking lot or the shopping cart.  Instead I resort to cheap paragraphs about how I'm writing about it having not experienced it.  There; good.

Anyway the storm came and Sharaun called it nearly unbearable.  A screaming, crying throw-down against all things holy the whole trip through the store.  "Everyone was looking," she moaned, tortured by the retelling.  "I restrained myself," she said, "But I kept thinking, 'Oh, if David were here he'd spank her right in front of all these people.'"  Boy, I didn't realize I'm that heavy-handed.  This Disneyland thing really has marred my reputation. I swear violence is my absolute last option.  My spanking hand does not have a hair trigger.  But still, I fear she may be right in her thoughts.  Worse than Disneyland, and all the more "public" to boot?  Yes sir I may indeed have spanked her right there... although I can already tell you that in the alternate universe where it was me at the grocery store and I did spank her, it didn't help a lick and, in fact, made things quite worse.

She did, in the end, restrain herself.  She continued her shopping undaunted.  Went right down the list anyway amidst Keaton screaming her head off and thrashing around in the cart.  For that I'm infinitely proud of her.  A small victory maybe, but I like to think at least one or two of those people looking on - even while mortifying her and very likely causing her to question her very mettle as a child-rearer - I like to think at least one or two of them did so as their backs straighten in solidarity.  "You do it, fellow parent.  You don't take that.  You go right on with your business, go right on shopping.  Do what you need to do and let the kid bawl and whine.  With raised-fist I'm with you."  I tried to explain this notion to Sharaun but it was lost in the rawness of her embarrassment.  I did tell her though that I was proud of her for not giving up on or rushing her errand because of it all.  And I really am.

Oh and the punishment.  Poor Keaton.  Never before has the toy room simply been "closed."  I mean, it's the room with all the toys.  For an almost-four year old what else is there but toys?  I found this all out upon arriving home that night... Keaton's eyes still red and puffed from tears and Sharaun screwed up tight.  She got three books.  Three books and that's it.  She didn't even get to pick them, I'm sure a final rankling indignity in her eyes.  Three books and everything else was sealed off in the toy room, entombed.  The doors stand closed and the light is off and the blinds are drawn.  I heard about the punishment from a huffy Keaton before I heard about the reason for it from Sharaun, she caught me at the door on my way in.  "Wow," I thought.  Sealing off the toy room... this must be something big.

Two days without toys or TV.  Three books and that's it.  Yeah I'm proud of my wife.  She's doing a great job with that girl and I'd be hurting without her consistency.

Goodnight.

i just didn’t know

Friday! Here's hoping we get on our standby flights tomorrow and get to lil' brother's wedding reception on-time. Root for us, K? Thanks.

Blog; let's go.

It was my turn to put Keaton to bed the other night, the first time in a while since I’ve been out of town. The bedtime ritual involves 1) the brushing of teeth, 2) the using of the potty one last time, 3) the washing of hands and face, and 4) the removal of our daytime clothes (remembering to put them in the hamper) and the donning of pajamas. Past that it’s time to lay down in bed, say a prayer, maybe sing a song or talk for minute about the day, and then it’s kiss-and-a-hug and off to sleep.

We began in the bathroom. Keaton brushed her teeth well, and then sat down to use the potty. Afterward she climbed back up on her stool and put some soap on her hands. Turning on the water, she wet her hands and began rubbing them together, soaping them to a froth. Smiling, she looked up and me and began to sing, “Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday dear Tyler! No… no… wait…,” she started over, “Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday dear Grammy..." I smiled back at her, thinking she was just remembering that we had called Grammy earlier that evening to actually sing to her for her birthday, and she continued with her song.

As she got past the “… dear Grammy” part I began telling her, “OK Keaton, go ahead and rinse now.” At my urging, she became noticeably frustrated, stopping her singing to stammer something like, “No! That’s not the way we do it!” Thinking this just another manifestation of her three year-old OCD, I again asked her to go ahead and rinse. By that time, however, she’d restarted her birthday song all over again. Now I was getting frustrated because she wasn’t listening to me, and I changed my tone a bit. “Keaton,” I said somewhat firmly, “I asked you to rinse please. You’ve been washing long enough.”

With tears in her eyes, and the most pained and frustrated look on her face she once again turned to me and squeaked something like, “That’s not how we do it!! I’m not finished!” Confusingly, she almost seemed torn or conflicted. Once again I figured she was just frustrated that I wasn’t letting here complete what I saw as just another bedtime-delaying tactic – a favorite thing of hers. Standing firm, I repeated myself, noting that I wouldn’t be repeating myself again. “Please rinse Keaton, I’m not going to ask you again and I want you to listen.”

Broken, and now fully in tears, she obliged me, quit singing and rinsed her hands. After drying them, she ran out into the living room where Sharaun was watching TV. “What’s wrong baby?,” asked Sharaun. And that’s when I found out what all the fuss was about. Her head buried in Sharaun’s lap, she said tearfully, “Daddy wouldn’t let me sing ‘happy birthday’ while I washed my hands.” “Oh,” said Sharaun, “He wouldn’t? Maybe daddy doesn’t know about the birthday song while we wash our hands.” I perked up.

“Oh, is that a thing, or something?,” I asked. Sharaun replied, “Yeah; we sing the ‘happy birthday’ song while we wash our hands to be sure we have enough time to get all the germs off.” Keaton looked up at me through puffy eyes and snuffled a satisfied sniff as if to say, “Duh dad.”

I don’t know why, but when I realized that I’d forced her to do the opposite of something Sharaun had schooled her to do, I felt pointedly terrible. Now I understood the conflicted look on her face and the frustrated tears. She wanted to listen to me, but she was doing what mommy taught her to do. How could she do right by the both of us? No wonder she was upset; I’d have been confused too. What’s worse, I’d been stern with her when she was only trying to do what she thought we want her to do. It’s a tiny thing, I know, but it made me feel terrible. No really, I almost wanted to cry for putting her between a rock and a hard place.

I knelt down and held her arms so she was in front of me and I could look at her. “I’m sorry Keaton,” I said. “Daddy didn’t know. I didn’t know you sing the ‘happy birthday’ song while you wash your hands to make sure all the germs are gone. That’s a really good idea, and I’m glad I learned about it. We’ll do it next time OK? I’m sorry I made you stop singing and rinse before you could finish. I won’t do it again. Will you forgive me?”

And with a big hug she said, “It’s OK daddy. You just didn’t know.”

Goodnight folks. Talk to you next week from sunny Florida.

Oh, and, I do believe it hit another week wall-t0-wall. Go!

spinning in love

Hi.

Before going to bed last night I told Sharaun I had today figured for a harrying one at the sawmill.  With last week shot to time in Oregon and the subsequent game of catch-up, and Monday's Yosemite weekend extension absence, I knew I'd face an avalanche neglected and undone work.  I was right; but it was one of those good-feeling busy days, where you end up leaving feeling more productive than overwrought.

After work I made a brief stopover at a local watering hole to have an (informal) "after hours" business meeting with some of the other shirts.  Sometimes those suds-and-appetizer ad-hoc meetings are the best for real conversation... and the unstated rule of confidentiality that disclaims all bar-talk certainly helps.  Anyway, thirty minutes past five and I was home... unfortunately with a bellyful of bad-for-me pub food and not much interested in the healthier pasta dish Sharaun had prepared for me (I'm scheduled on the "Bad Husbands" episode of Springer next month).

Once at home, I found Keaton especially animated and talkative, and had the wherewithal to grab the camera and roll film as she started to tell me about her plans for "falling in love."  So then, since I recorded it I figured I'd spend ten minutes editing it and slapping a title on it so I could properly share it with the internet.  Here, then, is Keaton talking about "falling in love":

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Interesting notions on love and marriage, Keaton.  Glad you could be here to share with the sounds familiar audience today.

And now, changing subjects: The Ford continues to lumber along while she awaits a merciful death at the hands of the Obama administration's "Cash for Clunkers" plan.  A goverment-connected friend of mine keeps me informed on the progress of the various legislative efforts around this initiative which are snaking their way through Congress.  In a good sign, the House today passed their version of the bill.  A good sign, to be sure, but I'm still reserving all-out excitement for final language and voting.

Oh before I go, I heard a joke I liked today.  Q: How many hipsters does it take to screw in a light bulb?  A: It's a really obscure number; you've probably never heard of it.

And that, my friends, is the end of the blog for Tuesday.  Goodnight.